


Just Another Day at the Office

by jesse_panic



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesse_panic/pseuds/jesse_panic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Medic was having a bad enough day before the Heavy had to go and make it worse... contains named TEAM members.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day at the Office

**Author's Note:**

> The only reason why there is no reference to doves in this fic is because it was written before the Meet the Medic video.

He kept his tone clear-cut and professional. Although she was a friend, this was a diagnosis, and these were business hours. He was a doctor, not a jester.

 

“Of course, you have every right to be concerned about your shortness of breath; given your work clothing, it is hardly surprising.” His German accent muzzled some of his words, turns the ‘th’s into ‘z’s and forcing some of the ‘r’ sounds out almost in a barked command. This shortness had made his audience somewhat uncomfortable, and although they were two of his dearest and closest friends, he enjoyed that. After all, he was a doctor; his words could mean life or death, disease or health, pain or freedom. They were in his office, in his world. They must play by his rules, for here; he has the power over their very lives. Vespa _should_ have that hangdog expression on her face, her already-prominent dark circles and stress lines even more pronounced than usual, an expression that could only say “ _Please don’t be asbestos poisoning, please don’t be asbestos poisoning._ ” as she stared back at him helplessly, waiting for an answer. And Bayard was right to have that sharp intake of breath, and to close both his hands on Vespa’s arms, clasping her in place, in an action that was meant to be reassuring but looked and felt like the preparatory action of someone about to comfort the dying. His wide hazel eyes were also locked on Helmut, anxious for the news. Helmut exhaled steadily, in no rush. _He_ knew she was in no danger, but that didn’t mean he had to tell the neighbourhood so quickly.

 

“You see, that is always the risk with the Pyro profession. Did you know that up to 45% of them end up-”

 

There was a tremendous crash from behind Helmut that made all three of them jump. The office door banged open, the ensuing airwave disturbing the carefully placed papers- and even some of his lighter medical instruments- on his desk. The doctor, whose head had swivelled just as quickly as the others to follow the sound, turned back, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to his forehead, massaging the space above his eyebrows. This could only be-

 

“ _Hello_ _Doktor!”_ Evgeny bounded through the door, dropping a large bag of provisions he had been sent out (on meticulous instructions) to buy carelessly on the floor on his way from the door to the desk. “I have missed you! Shopping was long and boring! How was your day after war games?”

 

Helmut placed his hand back on his desk and flicked his gaze somewhat disdainfully towards Evgeny. “It has been tolerable. Now would you please- _uhurgh_!-”

 

_Why_ had he tried to start a conversation with Evgeny? He had _known_ this was coming, could see it from a mile off, because every time Evgeny saw him again- every time, no matter how long they had been parted for- he hugged him. With the same, bonecrushing, overtly long, uncomfortable, hug: knocking the breath out of him, and taking his dignity with it. This time it was from behind, as Helmut was sitting at his desk, so not only could he feel Evgeny’s great overbearing weight squeezing him until he choked; but he could also see the reactions of the Spy and the Pyro sitting in front of him. Vespa had gone from a worried frown to a smug sideways grin, her mouth creasing upwards in a boyish smirk that made his blood boil. Bayard was even worse, for even though his years of training had left him with a perfect poker face for situations like this, for a second he caught Helmut’s eye and raised his eyebrows once, just short enough for him to legitimately claim that it was a muscle twitch, just long enough for it to be sexually suggestive.

 

Helmut scowled. That was it. That was _it._ He had had a long day, most of it spent piecing bloody Evgeny back together again, and healing those other 7 _dummkopfs_ whenever they were too stupid to keep out of the way of fire, then he’d headed straight here, where he spent the rest of his day doing exactly the same thing, only with less gunfire and more emphasis on the fact that being the BLU team’s Medic apparently also makes you the team psychiatrist, so not only did he have to deal with Jane’s athlete’s foot but also Nicky’s abandonment issues and Allie’s fear that alcohol has been the reason he has not made a legitimate connection with another human being in years, and he was tired and he was stressed and he hadn’t stopped for lunch and Jude had forgotten his promise to get him a sandwich and now his pens were _everywhere_ and his desk was a mess and everyone was laughing at him and it was all Evgeny’s fault...

 

“ _Get!-”_ the shout rang through the room like a gunshot, stopping abruptly because even Helmut was caught off guard by the anger in his voice. Vespa and Bayard stopped smiling, moving back in their seats and exchanging an uneasy, but disapproving glance. Evgeny’s reaction was worse. His face was the picture of shock and sadness, his blue eyes as blank as slates, his mouth a wide downturned arch. There was a reluctantly slow slackening of his grip around Helmut’s chest, unwilling, but understanding. Even if he didn’t know what was wrong, he knew that it was probably his fault, and that he should wait for Helmut to correct him. Helmut felt the hollow gnawing of instant guilt in his stomach; he was wrong, and he knew it. There was no need for him to act like this. Vespa has every right to be worried, after all, she might have a potentially fatal disease, and Bayard’s concern for her wellbeing was touching to say the least. Jude would feel terrible about forgetting his sandwich, and would buy him an even better lunch tomorrow. He loved his job, admittedly more for the 24-hour gorefest than the satisfaction of knowing he’d just saved his friends’ lives, but still... and he was honoured when the others came to him for advice and help. Nicky had every right to feel abandoned; his father was gone, his brothers had never visited him at the BLU compound, and whenever his mother called he could hear Rougemont whispering sweet nothings into her ear. And maybe it was good that Allie was finally coming to terms with his alcoholism, it made him more likely to live past forty, at least.

 

And, of course, there was the issue of Evgeny. Yes, it would always annoy him when Evgeny hugged him like that in public without warning: it was undignified and uncomfortable and sometimes even painful. And he grew weary of Evgeny’s constant happiness to see him- _gott_ \- sometimes it was like having a puppy, not a significant other; always following (or dragging) him around, a look of utter devotion in his eyes, an intolerably cheerful smile on his face, sometimes even a rowdy song on his lips. It was the fact that the only thing Evgeny apparently needed to be happy was to be with him, which seemed lovely on the surface of it, but all the damn time?! Sometimes it made Helmut want to hit him, push him away and tell him to leave him alone for I-don’t-know-how-long- _dummkopf_ -just-do-it! And that thought filled Helmut with a shame, for that was the difference between them. If Evgeny was in a bad mood, he would go outside and punch the wall, or the dustbins (or, on one disastrous occasion, a cactus), but he would never take it out on Helmut, or any of the others for that matter. No, Evgeny could be terrifying, he could break your bones, tear your flesh, beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted to... but he couldn’t be petty. Evgeny could seriously fuck you up if you’d actually wronged him, but he couldn’t just take umbrage at you for no reason. Helmut, on the other hand; all you have to do is look at him wrong on a bad day and then _bam!-_ screaming contest, insincere insults thrown across the room like confetti, storming off in a sulk. Leaving Evgeny to pick up the pieces. Helmut sighed. He still felt all the petty anger of the day on his shoulders, but now he could see it for what it was, and understood that it was his burden and no-one else’s. He understood what he must do.

 

“-back,” he murmured softly, almost embarrassed, as if trying to compensate for the loudness of his previous cry. “Get back, please.”

 

“Okay doktor...” said Evgeny, confused and still upset. He loosened his grip still further on Helmut, until he had almost let go completely, then hesitated, hoping the Medic didn’t want him to, but then continued with the motion.

 

“No no, stop-” Helmut pulled the Heavy’s hands back around his waist, into a hug loose enough for him to turn his chair around and stand up to face Evgeny, “That’s perfect.” he said as he embraced him. It was not an overwhelming bear hug like the one he had received, but it was tight and sincere, a close embrace that lasted longer than Evgeny- who was little surprised, but of course hugged him back- had expected. Helmut clung to him, and before letting go squeezed him even tighter, leaning into his neck, standing on tiptoes just long enough to whisper “ _Danke”_ into his ear before releasing his grip. Evgeny responded with a tiny dismissive shake of his head: _no problem_.

 

Reluctantly, Helmut broke their grip, turning back to his desk. “I am sorry you had such a boring time at the shops, next week I will go, ja?”

 

“If you want to,” Evgeny shrugged. “I do not mind. Doktor needs to treat patients.”

 

“On the battlefield, but not every day afterwards. Do not worry, I will go. And just give me a moment to finish talking to Vespa here, then I will close the surgery.”

 

Evgeny nodded, then went to sit in the corner of the room, waiting. There was an unspoken rule that if you wanted your medical information to remain confidential you could just tell Evgeny to leave, but as the team spent about 99% of their time together they mostly chose to just let him sit in: they’d probably end up telling him later anyway.

 

Dr Metzgur turned back to his patient. “My apologies, you are obviously impatient to hear your test results. Well, I am pleased to say you do not have asbestos poisoning-”

 

“Oh thank God,” Bayard murmured in relief, exhaling and bringing his hand to his forehead in a gesture of relief and exhaustion, before opening his cigarette box in a matter-of-fact manner. He celebrated the fact that his girlfriend didn’t have a lung disease with a long, slow puff on his twelfth unfiltered cigarette of the day. Vespa relaxed in her chair too, exhaling with relief so much that she let out a dry cough, a puff of dust issuing from her mouth. Bayard’s expression clouded over again as he rubbed her back tenderly.

 

“Ça va?”

 

“Sí...” she nodded wearily. “I’ll live, apparently. But if this isn’t asbestos,” she waffed the cloud of dry powdery particles away from her face, “Then what the hell is it?”

 

“Dust; particles from the sand, the gravel pits. You have a minor infection which seems to have affected your cilia, and given your everyday environment you’ve simply got a lot of dust in there which you can’t shift. Not to worry, a couple of shots with the medigun and you should be fine. However, I shall still send a recommendation to Blutarch for you to have a couple of days off, so as to avoid you taking in more dust before you have fully recovered.” As he spoke, he charged up the medigun, fired two short shots at Vespa’s chest, after which she breathed with audibly less rattling.

 

She smiled, some of the worry lines lifting off her face. “Thanks, Doc, you didn’t have to.”

 

Helmut waved his hand flippantly. “ _Nien,_ that’s what it’s for. You two can go now, enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

 

As they got up to leave, Vespa nodded in thanks, and Bayard became suddenly bizarrely formal, shaking Helmut’s hand and hurriedly muttering “Merci!” before rushing to join Vespa at the door, who teased him gently, ruffling his hair and calling him “quequito” until he protested. Helmut couldn’t help but smile, happy to see all their months of confusion, flirting and half-jocular, half-frustrated resentment had finally turned into a happy relationship.

 

“We go now?” Evgeny had picked up the shopping bag and was standing by the door, not impatient, but hopeful.

 

“In a minute, I just want to tidy my desk and then we shall leave,” Helmut set about sorting his papers and righting the box in which he kept all his pens.

 

“I can help you!” Evgeny dropped the bag again and walked over to the desk.

 

“ _Nien_ , you don’t have to,” Helmut couldn’t stifle a laugh; Evgeny- though enthusiastic- was clumsy and never put things back in the right place.

 

“But I want to help you!” said Evgeny, picking up the nearest group of papers and stacking them all together without checking what was written on them.

 

Helmut sighed and shook his head in mock exasperation, but didn’t get genuinely angry, because in his head, he was no longer in the room. No, in his head they had already left his office, and were walking home together, chatting about anything; team gossip, weaponry statistics, books... then they’d get to the compound and cook a meal together, making casual conversation with whoever else was around for a while, before retiring to their own private quarters. After supper, they’d read together, leaning on each other on the sofa, until they both got tired and realised they wanted an early night. At which point, they’d go to bed, and he’d take off his glasses and turn off the light, and the two of them would embrace again; holding each other in the darkness, talking for a while longer, until the exhaustion of a day of thinking on your feet whilst running for your life caught up with them, and they’d drift into oblivion together, locked in their embrace.

 

“Helmut? Is this where this goes?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Evgeny had Helmut’s stethoscope in his hand and was trying to file it in his medical records bureau. “Is this where this goes?”

 

“... Yes, why not?” Helmut shook his head to himself. The disorganised desk wasn’t worth the bother. Besides, he could always remember where Evgeny put things anyway. After two years of living with someone, you start to know how their mind works.

*


End file.
